


the flooding dark

by saltedpin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Les Jours 2018 treat, M/M, Valjean's sexy repressed fever dreams, a very late treat, he probably doesn't write this one down for Victor Hugo to find later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/pseuds/saltedpin
Summary: After escaping from the Gorbeau tenement, Valjean has a dream of what might have been.





	the flooding dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



> With super thanks as always to Apathy!
> 
> The title is from the Archibald MacLeish poem _You, Andrew Marvell_.
> 
> For TwelveLeagues; I hope this is enough Valjean suffering sadly and somewhat sexily for you! Sorry it’s so late.
> 
> This is set in the period immediately after the Gorbeau tenements episode, when Valjean is recovering from the burn he gives himself and stuck inside with a fever for a month.

Cosette had returned to her own bed hours before; Valjean had insisted upon it. He has been feverish these past few nights, and Cosette has slept by his chair, her presence that of a warding angel’s. So long as he has been able to rest his eyes upon her sleeping face, her head resting on her forearm and framed by her soft, dark hair, he has been able to keep sleep – the things that sleep might contain – at bay. 

She had seemed peaceful, but Valjean had not failed to notice her eyes were a little dull, and surrounded by circles of shadow. Still, she had sung to him, read him books, placed a cool cloth against his forehead while his fever burned. Valjean had wished for nothing more than this: to watch the wan afternoon sunlight of the short winter days creep across the floor as the world froze solid around them; to listen to Cosette as she sang and chattered and scolded him for refusing to see the doctor. 

Once or twice he had caught himself a moment before sleep overcame him, his head dropping to his chest, not even the pain of his burn enough to keep him from sinking into darkness. 

Sleep is like a grasping hand that comes for him, and which he knows he cannot evade forever. 

_My fever is not so bad today – you should sleep in your own room tonight, Cosette,_ he had told her, and Cosette, yawning and trying to hide it, had kissed his cheek and replied, _As you say, Papa, but I will rise with Toussaint and come to check on you in the morning._

Valjean watches as the fire dies on the hearth, flickering lower and lower as the night wears on. Warmth lingers in the room nonetheless – both from the fire, and from the memory of Cosette’s presence. The dark floods in as the fire breathes its last, and Valjean is alone with the thoughts he has not dared to dwell on; the things that Cosette, with her sweet, gentle kindness, has kept away. 

It is not terror that creeps through his chest, rising in his throat and choking him. Valjean knows terror – he knows despair, and he knows anger. He has felt his soul pulled down into the mire of bitterness and rage, and he has learned to rise above it. There is nothing in him now of the man he had once been; of the creature that had shambled from the gates of Toulon. It is not anger that fills him now, not even when he thinks of the young man who has shadowed them in the park, or the knowledge, dawning within him, that Cosette will soon be lost to him. 

The past has always been heavy on his shoulders, and he has endured it. For his own sake, for Cosette’s sake. But as inescapable as it has seemed, he has always managed to evade it; some twist of fate has always delivered him from that reaching hand which emerges from the darkness. 

It is not fear that fills him, nor terror, nor rage, nor despair. It is resignation.

Valjean had known him the moment he had appeared in the doorway of the hovel. It had not been by his voice, nor even his face, obscured as it was in the darkness – Valjean had needed only the line of Javert’s shoulder, silhouetted by the scant light of the hallway, to know him. The darkness that had wound around his heart in that moment had been indescribable, but it had not been a terror that he would fail to escape that had seized him. It had been a terror that he might not even try.

Valjean closes his eyes. He is tired; he has not slept. The fever still has him in its teeth. He feels his head bowing beneath fatigue, and he sinks down, and further down, and is swallowed up by whatever dreams await him. 

It is dark in the places his sleeping mind takes him, and the stone floor is cold and hard beneath his bare feet. He does not know where he is, and he suspects it does not matter; nothing matters but the presence of the man before him, the warm solidity that hovers just out of reach. As he sinks to his knees, he whispers, _I am tired, Javert,_ and he waits.

There is no chain about his neck, but Valjean does not move as the hand on the back of his head slides up and through his hair, grasping it until it hurts. Valjean does not struggle against it, closing his eyes, letting the pain seep through him as if it is a benediction.

He has waited for this; every day since he had fled into the dead-end alley with Cosette on his back, he has waited for this. He has known of beasts that will, when caught in a snare, gnaw their own limbs off rather than submit to capture; but equally, there are those little creatures who wait almost calmly for the hunter to come, take them up, and snap their necks. 

_I knew it was you, Valjean. Just as I have always known._

Javert’s voice, when it comes, is softer than he remembers it; but then, why should it not be? He knows he has him; he knows Valjean will make no attempt to escape him this time. The warmth of his palm rests on the crown of Valjean’s head, his fingers curled painfully in his hair. The weight of Javert’s hand presses him down, until he feels himself sinking into the floor, pulled down into whatever still festers in his soul, even after all these years.

Valjean swallows, feeling his breath grow shallow in his chest, and he wishes he could tell himself that fear at last has gripped him.

Of course Javert had known him. When has Javert not known him? The inspector’s keen gaze has always seen through the guise of Monsieur Madeleine, penetrating to that core of baseness that Valjean knows still resides within him. His sinner’s heart has always been laid bare beneath the coldness of Javert’s eyes. 

Perhaps he mutters in his sleep – perhaps he tries to offer some justification for all his years of running – because something jars him into semi-wakefulness, the embers of the fire still glowing before him. Valjean tries to grasp the wisps of the waking world as they slide by, his breath stuttering, but they slip through his fingers and he is lost again, falling back into the feverish void of the dream.

The hand in his hair tugs at him, drawing him to his feet. Valjean need do nothing but obey it, and give himself over to whatever is demanded of him. It should feel like degradation, as his face is turned to the wall, as he allows himself to be pushed against it.

 _Tell me,_ Javert says, his voice suddenly close by Valjean’s ear, his breath hot against his cheek. _Tell me what it is you think you deserve._

Valjean cannot answer him; he feels powerless, pinned as he is beneath Javert’s hand, pressed against the cold wall of whatever cell his mind has created. He lets his eyes fall shut with a helpless groan; he is absolved of whatever happens next, he tells himself. He has resigned himself to it. He cannot force himself to run any longer. Could anyone truly blame him for tiring of the years-long struggle and giving in to what he knows must always be waiting? God’s eyes are not on him in this place. There is no one else here but Javert. And he is at last free to give in, and to offer his submission.

The graze of Javert’s teeth against his neck is not a surprise, nor is the press of fingers against his side. His hands are not bound, and Valjean raises them willingly. He watches as his fingers curl against the wall, pressing so hard against it that the tips of them turn white; Javert’s lips, pressed against him, curl into a snarl, his breath hot and damp against Valjean’s nape. 

Valjean wishes there was not such quiet in his soul.

Valjean cannot say what he thinks he deserves, but surely it is not this strange pleasure that winds its way up from his gut as Javert’s hand slides down over his belly, cupping at his straining flesh; surely it is not this heaviness at his groin, the surge of blood that nearly overcomes him. He drops his head, panting, feeling nothing – there is no pain, no despair, no anxiety. There is only the grasp of Javert’s hand around him, and a lightness in his chest that he has not known since he was young.

 _Javert,_ he gasps, as he hears the man’s foot scrape against the floor as he pushes forward, grinding against him, hard against the small of Valjean’s back. Valjean arches, fingers scrabbling at the wall as a moan escapes his lips. He does not care; he is beyond such things now. Who will hear him, in any case? _Javert –_

Javert’s hand is in his hair again, pulling his head back, baring the long stretch of his throat. There is pain in the back of Valjean’s head and in his neck; he tries to swallow, but the strain of his skin is too tight, and all he can do is wait, as hot darkness builds within him like the oncoming tide. He is at a peak now, and after this, there can only be a descent. 

_You know what you are._ Javert’s voice is harsh, barely more than a roughened growl as his hand slides up Valjean’s arm, his fingers coming to rest on the wall beside Valjean’s own. _You may try to hide, but God knows, you cannot –_

“Papa?”

Valjean struggles against the dream as it clings to him, threatening to drag him down. He blinks; his head is turned to the side, and he raises it. Cosette stands before him, a tray of food in her hands, her blue eyes wide, and her lower lip drawn back between her teeth. 

He had returned to her, of course – he had forced himself up from the floor of the hovel, stealing across the room before clambering from the window and into the alley below. He had not fallen prey to the resignation and fatigue that had threatened to drag him down: he had come home to his cottage, to Cosette, and to the life they have created here, within the garden. He tries to forget the moment that the temptation had trembled within his heart to remain; to stay where he had been, crouched in the corner of the room, until Javert’s gaze had fallen on him, and the terrible dawning of recognition had spread across his face.

The pain from his burn throbs through his body, sweat beading on his brow. He swallows, his throat raw. 

There is nothing of the cell, nothing of Javert. 

There is only the pallid gleam of sunlight through the window and a small hand on his, and Cosette’s soft, trembling voice as she repeats, “Papa?”

Valjean passes a hand over his eyes, as if to wipe away the remnants of his sleeping mind – whatever may still linger here, in the shadows of the room. “I was only dreaming, child.”


End file.
